


various unfinished kari/nemo soulmate/bond aus

by Nadler



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dallas Stars, M/M, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:24:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13210785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadler/pseuds/Nadler
Summary: All ways and times that Kari Lehtonen and Antti Niemi could have been. (A personal amnesty collection for NYE 2017).





	1. signed for (name on body, name is a signature)

**Author's Note:**

> These are all kari/nemo ideas I am realistically not going to finish. Maybe someone will want to read them. Each chapter was its own WIP.

Not everyone has a name, but Kari's born with his, a tiny scrawl on his arm that he won't learn to read until he's nearly four. No one bothers to tell him what it's for or why his parents don't have one or why the old neighbor does and never, ever tells anyone what name is under a bright green band. 

Kari's also four when he puts on his first pair of skates and stands on the ice, barely daring to move in case he goes crashing down. 

 

* * *

 

Antti doesn't get a mark until he's three months old, and no one really thinks anything of that, either. It's not something his parents noticed right away, but there's a scrawl. 

Antti used to think he could rub it off, if he scratched hard enough, find the root of where the signature came from, but in the end, no one knows. It's a name, and Antti thinks he can read it. Mostly. 

 

* * *

 

Kari learns to hide his namemark under a plain brown band, nothing special. He learns to school his face and not react when someone says the name--and of all names it could be, it's _Antti_ , so his hope aren't very high of this latest classmate, of this latest teammate, of this random person walking down the street being him. 

He doesn't even know what Antti's like. Sometimes, he thinks, Antti must be the most common name in Finland, though he looked it up once and it wasn't true. 

Kari knows he asked his parents, "Why do I have a name?" often enough, but they only sent him off with a ruffle of his hair. 

Sometimes, it's there and it's enough to think that Kari can still do great things after hockey. During times like that, he runs his finger over the name and wonders if Antti even likes hockey, if he'd want anything to do with a hockey player. 

Kari's sixteen and he still wonders what Antti sees on his skin; it's the big reason he tries to keep his signature legible. He doesn't know if he succeeds. Some days, he looks at it and sees the crossed t's and wonders if it's supposed to be a _Matti_ instead, but he looks at the sharp angle of the A, and he knows that he's got the name right. 

Kari's not going to try to decipher the last name, but it's a short one, he thinks. And it starts with an N, probably. Possibly a W, but Kari can't think of any Finnish names that start with that. 

He's had _Antti_ written on his arm his whole life. This is the mark of the man he'll do great things with, when they meet or when they'll do them--or sometime inbetween. But he's already left a mark on Kari. 

 

* * *

 

Like a lot of other people, Antti hears about soulmates in history class. Those kinds of soulmates changed nations, started and ended wars. He hears about the empires soulmates have built together, about the ways that they've changed the world. 

They do great things, and Antti--well, his name's always covered. It says some name, possibly too many syllables; it's always said that, and Antti never knows if the next one he meets is supposed to be the one that changes his life. At least, that's what he thinks the name is supposed to mean.  
But, there's also the matching names who do smaller things, who aren't as noticed, and Antti isn't comfortable with the kind of spotlight. 

That's not who they'll have to be, he thinks, and maybe that's a relief. 

On the other hand, he thinks the thing he hates the most, after math, is bad penmanship. For all of Antti's failures, as a student, as a _goalie_ playing in juniors, well, at least he doesn't have as sloppy signature as his namemark. 

Antti's mother's favorite movie is one of the sappy ones: Antti catches her watching it more than once. The name on a woman's wrist matches a famous musician; he plays music and overextends himself just to find, just to make his name and mark known. The woman's deaf. 

He wonders if she ever thinks that's how Antti's life is supposed to go, some tragic story. 

 

* * *

 

Objectively, Kari knows that the name could be anyone, could mean anything. The movies they make about long-lost loves and names, or something that portrays namemates like Romeo and Juliet, it always means they'll be in love, a great one, an impossible one that means someone dies at the end of it. But kings have had their generals, and business partners of very successful corporations have had each other, too, and Kari wouldn't label any of those romances. 

It still means that Kari gets chirped for the band all the damn time. He's seventeen, and while they say that the big leagues meant a different environment, it was still a locker room. He's getting the start tonight. The game's going to be on _television_. 

"Maybe show off a little bit for the camera," one of his teammates teases. And they mean well, mostly, but sometimes Kari still feels like a kid. 

There's no guarantee they'll even like each other, but Kari doesn't know how someone doesn't love, at least a little, someone they'll go on to do great things with. And having _Antti_ on his arm makes it a little easier. 

It makes it easier to understand why Kari sometimes flushes when there's a strong arm around his shoulder and why his mouth feels like chalk when someone expects him to have an answer if he has a girlfriend.

 

* * *

 

Kari does not make a habit of sleeping with guys named Antti. For one, he doesn’t have the opportunity very often, not since he’s come to the NHL. But sometimes, it happens.

 

* * *

 

In any case, Kari's long past the stage of trying to befriend everyone named Antti when Antti Niemi's rights are traded to the Stars. 

He tells the media everything they want to hear--all the times that Kari can remember meeting the guy, and that they'll play great together. He's excited for the season by the end of the second interview, which he didn't think he would be, not with someone fighting for his spot. 

It's not like he hasn't played with Antti before, but the Olympics are the Olympics; no one talks about Sochi much, but Antti wasn't a bad roommate, either. That part, of what Kari tells the media, is true. 

 

* * *

 

Maybe Kari didn't notice this before, but Antti comes into the room and something low at the Benns, in Finnish, Kari splutters. He's stuck in that state of cough-laughing until Fidds comes over to pat his back and ask, "Are you okay?" and also yell to the room, "Someone throw a goalie some water, what are you, blind?" 

When Kari settles down and gulps his water, he thinks he'll have to prepare for Antti being funny in the future because he'll die at this rate. He is a goalie--he prepares. 

The worst part is that Antti's facade cracks, and Kari can see some smugness on his face when his face slips. And honestly, Kari wonders about Jamie sometimes, so it's only fair.

He may even like Antti. It's odd, to think that, but they didn't really know each other before. 

 

* * *

 

Antti wins the start, and Kari hates it. 

Kari watches, trying to find where he can say it went wrong. Nothing. Nothing goes wrong--Antti pitches a fucking shutout, and he has assists besides, and Kari can't do anything but smile aned act like he's happy for him. 

Kari's really happy for the team, though, which makes it all the harder. Kari gets his start eventually, and he does what he used to do with Mike. He goes to Reese and asks him for the plays. What he doesn't expect is coming with him and listening and nodding along. 

Kari tells Reese, "Tell them to open up a little more there, then the only option someone has going five-hole if I'm set right," even though Reese can't change the play right this instant. It's good to remind to work it in. 

Antti asks, "VH or reverse?" joining in.

Kari does a little double-take. "Above or below?"

Reese answers them, of course, about what he thinks, about what he wants them to do. 

This, Kari thinks, actually might be a great year. 

 

* * *

 

In a locker room, there are always guys getting dressed and undressed. Sometimes, Kari forgets to wear a band if he's going to wear long sleeves, the name on his upper arm easily covered.

Goose is giving an interview, and Kari has to move behind him to grab something that fucking Rous threw across the room, and, well--

They catch Kari's namemark on camera. The frame's perfectly set so you can see it's a signature, and while people get tattoos, of course, everyone knows Kari wears a band on that arm. 

It says _Antti_ , and barely two hours later, someone on Twitter has a picture comparing the still of Kari's arm to a puck that Antti--Antti _Niemi_ signed. 

 

Jim Nill, when he gets the news and their agents on speakerphone, merely purses his lips and says, "Did you know?" 

Kari shakes his head. Next to him Antti does the same. It's not like they compared names when they met--Kari's not even sure he knew Antti had a namemark. It's not like it's a question Kari asks everyday. Antti's a common enough name, and well, asking someone is tantamount to admitting what it says. He'd never be sure it was _his_ Antti, and Kari always thought that he if he hadn't shown up by now, well, there was after hockey to make a search. 

Lindy's watching from the doorway, and he merely says, "Well, PR wants you to talk about it." 

The media does makes an uproar about it, even more articles than when they first announced the goalie tandem plan. Words like 'fated' get thrown around. Historically, there's been very few athletes with matching names. Kari can't name any at this particular moment, but maybe that's because Julie ambushes Kari with a cameraman in tow. 

"So, what does this mean for you and Antti Niemi?" she asks, aiming straight for his jugular. She adds, quickly, "Is it him?" 

"Antti's a very common name," Kari mumbles. He keeps a strained smile for the camera, aims for self-deprecating. "It might be. I don't think there's a way of checking."

Besides getting Antti naked and looking him over, he doesn't add, and Kari hopes it doesn't show that he was thinking about that. But the signature is pretty damning. 

"But great things, Kari," Julie insists, "Isn't that exciting?" 

"I've had my whole life to get used to it," he says, "and I still don't believe it some days." 

To save him from talking about his feelings about namemarks, Reeser comes and waves him over. 

"Thanks, Kari," he hears, as he turns away. 

 

* * *

 

Namemarks are supposed to mean you're destined for great things together, everyone knows that. Great loves, movies write about, and great tragedy.

No one talks about what it means in sports, though. Kari's teammates are careful enough not to mention it. He appreciates it--he barely knows what he's supposed to do when he and his name play for the same team. 

Kari appreciated the silence, anyway, up until Seggy blurts out one day, after a blowout win--"How can we lose? We've got our lucky, Finnish charms, don't we?" 

The room goes silent, and thankfully, thankfully, there are no reporters around. 

"I don't think it works that way," Spezz quickly says. 

"But what else is it supposed to mean? This is going to be our year," Seggy continues, so painfully, painfully earnest. "We can taste it." 

"We won medal at the Olympics," Kari interjects, aiming for casual. "Maybe that's supposed to be it." 

The fact there's gold medal winners for Team Canada in the locker room is not lost on Kari, but he thinks it's a minor obstacle to getting Seggy to shut up. 

"Maybe," Seggy accepts, dubiously. Or maybe that's just the face he makes when he smells his sweat-stained shirt. 

Across from Kari, Antti's not giving away a single thing with his expression.

Kari has someone to thank for that. 

 

For a while, it seems like it's true. They win, and they win, and they win. He spends a lot of time with Antti, mostly because they're goalies and they're Finnish and Kari enjoys having someone who will talk to him about the minutiae of the game with him. Goose says they might as well be the same person, which Kari's also slightly offended by. 

"Of course they are," Rous says, nonsensically, "Why else do they match? Les âmes soeurs sont ça, non? They already do that look thing." And Kari's going to take that as a French thing, honestly, because he's not quite sure what that's supposed to mean. 

 

Kari knows that not everyone approaches their match--their soulmate--the same way. He's never really thought about how other people handle this until Fidds hands Kari a card with a number on it. 

"What's this?" It's a blank white card, tall black numbers filling up the space. 

"A professional," Fidds says. "I asked around for you. Go see one; it's just what you're supposed to do, I think." 

Kari gives Fidds his best confused smile and pockets the card. 

 

Kari doesn't need a professional, even if that's what Canadians do. He doesn't need any other advice, either. No one really tries to give him any, not even Rous (who merely tells Kari to go for the good wine). One of the Swedes is a little surprised when Kari hasn't offered Antti his spare room, but that's all. 

He's glad for the space, mostly. 

Antti's the one who breaks their silence about the namemarks, when they hit a skid in their win streak. Or close enough to it, asking, "Why do you still wear--"

"You don't wear a dangler either," Kari interrupts because they've been having arguments about safety and pads, prompted by all the talk about pants reduction, of all things. The thought they agreed on this point, though. "So you can't lecture me on that." 

"No." Antti shakes his head, swallows hard enough Kari can see the bob of his Adam's apple. "Your armband. Everyone already knows, so why keep it up?" 

"Habit," Kari admits. A small fluttering feeling rises in his stomach. He thought they weren't talking about it--and Kari didn't have a confirmation before, which is really a testament to how much they weren't talking about it. "I could stop wearing it. You don't wear one?" 

Kari's curious, of course he is, but fuck, they have hockey to focus on and Antti wears short sleeves and shorts as often as any of the other guys. He could resort to looking in the showers, but he---well, he doesn't. That feels like crossing a line. 

Antti laughs. "No, I don't." 

 

* * *

 

Kari celebrates with the team less often these days. Jamie doesn't even chirp him for being old, though some of the rookies might, but they mostly refrain. 

"Can I see it?" Kari asks, sliding into the booth space next to Antti. He manages to spill half his drink on the table, to which Eaks simply says, "Hey, careful there," before heading off. 

"See what?" 

"Your mark." Kari can't believe Antti right now. What else would he be talking about? He's acutely aware of the way his arm presses against Antti's, the slight bulk of Kari's armband evident through their shirts. 

Antti's shirt is really nice. The thought passes quickly. 

There's a long silence as Antti looks at Kari, his blue eyes making Kari feel like Antti's searching for something. Kari smiles, cautiously. 

Antti slides the last half of his shots over at Kari, and Kari swallows, knocking that back. They nod at each other. 

 

They catch a cab back to the hotel. 

 

It takes some fumbling before they realize who has the keycard. Kari stumbles to perch on the edge of the bed and Antti locks the door. 

Then, Antti starts undoing his belt---which, okay, only a part of Kari thought this was going this way, but he's not actually complaining. He must make a confused noise of some sort, since Antti gives him another look, raising his eyebrow, and says, "You wanted to see it." 

"Are you telling me my name is on your dick," Kari asks, aiming for deadpan, but he can't help but smile sardonically. 

Judging by the silence, he stares a little too intensely as Antti continues to take off his pants--and honestly, this silence isn't making Kari think it isn't on his dick. Of course, Kari feels himself flush. Fuck. Antti even smirks at him, and Kari has to adjust himself, a little. 

"Don't say anything," Kari says. 

"Isn't that my line?" Antti pauses for a moment, like he's trying to figure out how the best way to take off his boxers and preserve his dignity is. 

"Go the fuck on with it," Kari finds himself saying, though he's trying not to stare, trying not to say anything about the line of Antti's half-hard dick through his boxers. "Are you suddenly shy? We share a locker room." 

It's true. 

"If you'd been looking, you'd know it's not on my dick."

Kari didn't think he could go any redder, but he does feel warmer. He hasn't been trying to look, but he can't find the effort to say that--it's not like he's opposed, really, but he's been trying not to--it might even make this moment worse. He feels the urge to duck or look away, but they've come this far.

It's not on his dick, but it's close. Inner thigh. There's Kari's scribble, with the K larger than the rest. It's hard to make out unless you're looking for it, and well, Kari's looking, now. 

Kari can't help but ask, "You dress on that side?" The words are out before he finishes processing what it means if he does, and the warm curl of satisfaction rising beneath his ribs. 

Antti nods, swallowing whatever words he was going to try. Antti rubs the back of his neck, and mutters, "I should go."

"Drink some water, at least," he says. Kari doesn't have to say why. Hangovers suck, and while it's been a while, Kari's not so sure about how many drinks _he's _had, nevermind Antti.__

__Antti trips over his own fucking pants, so that's a measure that they'll have to go by. Kari catches his forearm, though the room's carpeted, and Antti managed to sort of get onto the bed instead of falling on his ass._ _

__"You don't, uh," Kari starts, heart beating a little too fast in his ears, "have to go."_ _

__

__So Antti doesn't._ _

__

__Kari doesn't know when he starts coming home with Antti more often or not, or even if it was before they started fucking, but it's comforting. And now, the Stars are officially on a losing streak, and it feels like the longest losing streak of his life._ _

__"What the fuck happened," Kari vents, but it's barely audible. He's tired and defeated, and he didn't even start today. He should, honestly, play a good host, offer Antti a drink, thank him for driving him home, but Kari wants to scream; this year has been one disaster after another, and it's barely begun._ _

__Kari sits down, dejected, and he doesn't care if he sulks on his own couch. Antti knows where he keeps the liquor; and this part of losing at home is the worst--few of them rally together after a loss. A win is all of theirs to celebrate together, a loss to be handled individually._ _

__"We're playing like shit," Antti says, making Kari move over, crowding into his space. "All of the skaters, too."_ _

__"At least you're getting starts," Kari murmurs, half a complaint, half self-chastisement. "I'm not doing anything."_ _

__Antti cards his fingers through Kari's hair, but a little awkwardly, since he's swung an arm around Kari's shoulders. Kari thinks he's meant to find it a little comforting. It might be._ _

__Kari sighs a little deeper._ _

__"Think about the summer," Antti advises, after a short silence. "It's going to come no matter how much you gripe."_ _

__This is not the time to make off-season plans, and Kari tells him so._ _

__"It's going to be a short one," he adds, and Kari wants to know where the fuck Antti has that kind of conviction coming from._ _

__Kari takes another deep breath and closes his eyes, leaning into Antti's touch. It's not a relief when they're still playing like shit, when Kari's a little doubtful they'll even make playoffs at this rate, but they might still scrape by on overtime and a few shootouts._ _

__It doesn't feel like they're meant for great things at all._ _

__

__* * *_ _

__

__Their offseason is longer than Kari would have liked it to be, longer than any of them would have liked it to be._ _

__They see each other exactly three times during the offseason. Kari doesn't go home much, and a tiny part of him feels like he's betrayed something important, because if he's honest, Finland will be his homeland forever, but there's a small part of him that knows that it's not home anymore. It's the kind of home that only exists in memories, a childhood home, a place that almost feels the same to visit, but--_ _

__He doesn't think he'll retire back to Finland._ _

__

__* * *_ _

__

__Kari comes into the new season refreshed. He loses his first game. He comes in for Antti, and the Stars even manage to rally, but it was one goal too far. It's the only goal Kari lets in, but he'll get the loss._ _

__He tries not to look at his record very much._ _

__Kari asks Antti, "Really?" while they're still working back up to the rhythm they had last year, during the post-game stretching session. "We went to different goalie camps, and this is what I come back to?"_ _

__It doesn't feel the same, even if it should. The burn of stretching is mechanical, something his body is trained to do, but nothing seems to be falling into place, and Kari can't tell if he thinks he sees Antti falter or not._ _

__"It's _Colorado_ ," Antti grumbles, and Kari realizes that he thinks this is about one game. "We'll be fine." Kari doesn't know how to tell him otherwise, and Antti turns away, ready to hit the showers, and Kari already knows he's begun forgetting the loss. _ _

__

__In November, Antti loses four games. Kari loses _six_. They are not fine. _ _

__

__This is how things are not fine:_ _

__Even their days off don't seem very relaxing anymore. It's overshadowed by the weight of the losses, the expectations set last season, and the way that some forward seems to get hurt every second game._ _

__It'd be comical, if not for the fact that there's so many rookies on the team that Kari can barely have to time to learn a guy's name before another gets called up._ _

__And, well, Antti is Antti._ _

__"You're thinking too much again," Antti grumbles, startling Kari. He didn't notice Antti waking up. "Sleep in today, see how you feel."_ _

__"It's too late for that," Kari insists._ _

__Antti rolls his eyes and aggressively pulls the blanket over them both. Kari moves to protest, but it's warm, and the chill from the window is too cold, so he takes a deep breath._ _

__He doesn't remember falling asleep._ _

__

__Antti loses to the Penguins, another reminder that this year is nothing like last year. All that the team can do, after another round of glovetaps and good games and barely-hidden gripes about everything that the sports stands for, cursing the hockey gods all the way, is leave Antti alone._ _

__All Kari can do is offer Antti a drink and a shoulder to lean on. When Antti pulls him in for a kiss, more maudlin than he usually shows, Kari doesn't turn away. This, at least, is one of the few things that isn't wrong with this season._ _

__

__* * *_ _

__

__Then, Kari shuts out Colorado. The curse, lifted. Kari can't remember the last time he's won against them. It comes as a sigh of relief, and it's against Colorado, so it's even sweeter._ _

__They've got a little time before they have to fly back to Dallas, so honestly, the team celebrates wildly. There's a bar, and even here, there's places where they don't get bothered too much._ _

__Every win counts, at this stage. Everyone wants to buy him a drink, and Kari only smiles when Antti steals one Kari's left unattended for a minute. This--this is a good feeling, even if it's amongst a dozen very obnoxious teammates. Maybe it's an even better feeling for it._ _

__"You've always been a better goalie than you think you are," Antti murmurs, and Kari might even believe it. It might just be what Antti thinks Kari needs to hear._ _

__"For fuck's sake, it's a shutout, Kärppä," Antti says, and Kari realizes his feelings must show on his face. "Enjoy the feeling."_ _

__Kari laughs a little nervously. He tries a dubious pink shot of something Segs bought, which was already suspect. It makes his face pucker._ _

__Somehow, Kari does not get poisoned by Klinger's idea of what a drink is (and who the fuck knows, Swedes put bananas on pizza), and he manages to leave the bar in one piece. He suspects Antti helped. He must look so shocked to get about to his room since Antti asks, "What, did you want to come back with someone else?"_ _

__Kari shakes his head and answers, quietly, "No, of course not."_ _

__It's possibly the most serious talk they've ever had about what the hell they're doing._ _

__To avoid talking about his feelings, Kari tests the springiness of the bed a little, and then he stops, feeling altogether too much like it doesn't matter._ _

__Kari watches as Antti takes off his shirts, shucks off his shoes. It's not an unwelcome sight, but already he's burnt off the off-season bulk, and the chest protector still lets them feel it, and the pucks leave their mark. The bruises from Pittsburgh are still on Antti, and so are the ones that Kari put after that game._ _

__Kari's blood stirs, a little, at that thought. He starts taking off his own pants, for lack of something to do. A part of Kari wants to dig into that bruise he sucked onto Antti's thigh, by the namemark on his skin. He's already half-hard at the thought of it, he way he knows Antti's intake of breath will be sharp._ _

__"Are you trying a striptease?" he asks, when Antti seems to stop for no reason. "Because I don't think you're doing a great job, there."_ _

__"You want one?" Antti asks, scoffing a little._ _

__Kari huffs, and then laughs at the ridiculous thought of Antti giving a lapdance. It's too ridiculous for words. Though, they are goalies, and he'd be flexible enough for it._ _

__The bed dips while he's giving the thought half a second's serious thought, and Antti's close enough to pull on top of Kari and kiss, so he does that. One of Kari's hands digs into Antti's thigh, and the other rests on his back._ _

__They break apart, and Kari swallows a lump in his throat. Antti moves, aiming for friction--their dicks rub together, and it's great; Kari's sure he makes a sound that spurs him on to go a little faster, but still, that's not quite what he wants._ _

__There's a little unspoken undercurrent: Kari got a shutout, he can do what he wants. There's no sense of discovery--it's not new, but they've got different aches and pains this season, a different dimension to the familiarity._ _

__It prickles when their stubble comes at cross with each other, and Kari moves up along Antti's jaw, to murmur, "I want to fuck you." And he does, fuck, Kari does, and his hands punctuate the point by trying to get Antti's legs to spread wider, nudging at his thighs._ _

__Antti makes a sound, low in his throat, that might have been mostly swearing, but it only makes Kari want to hold on, to keep nipping at the hollow of his throat. "Fuck, hold on, fuck," Antti says._ _

__Kari whines when Antti pulls away, but he's back in almost no time--or maybe Kari's just can't notice the time passing by. Antti must have scavenged lube from somewhere, Kari can't think really about that, really, not Antti's pushing him back to straddle him._ _

__He fucks up into Antti, slowing down to a rocking pace when Kari struggles to keep the pace up. Antti's fingers dig into the meat of Kari's shoulders, and Kari's thumb presses into the bruise on Antti's thigh._ _

__One of them hisses, or maybe it's both, but it's real._ _

__Kari can't last, and he manages to move his hand over to Antti's hard, leaking dick to try to get him off before Kari goes off, himself. Kari doesn't manage to do that. He's aware that Antti makes a not-quite pained sound, and Kari realizes, idly, that he squeezed, a little._ _

__Kari's hand stills in apology. It doesn't stop Antti from rocking into Kari's hand or the sticky sensation that follows, over their stomachs._ _

__Kari takes a moment to breathe, panting a little. Antti takes his moment before rolling off, to lay on the bed next to him. Their shoulders don't quite touch, but they're close enough that Kari can feel the head radiating off of Antti._ _

__"We're going to do great things together." In the afterglow, maybe Kari's not making any sense. Maybe he's still a little tipsy and not collected and loose from the orgasm, but Kari feels like it needs to be said._ _

__Antti props himself up, reaching over and traces his thumb over the name on Kari's arm, and says, with all the force of someone who's managed to come from almost nothing and make it to the Show and stay, all the conviction of someone wasn't lucky enough to have the luxury of falling from grace--he says, "Of course we are. How could we do anything else?"_ _

__And that, when he looks into Antti's eyes and sees the gleam there, well, Kari believes. And belief, well, that's a powerful thing. It makes Kari forget the weight of their contracts, and how he days are ticking down, and how's he's past thirty in a sport that chews athletes out as fast as it takes them in. Kari doesn't feel old, despite the joints, despite the way the jokes reach him a little further now than they used to._ _

__It's enough._ _


	2. it's a name (on a wrist)

Antti fakes a smile when someone asks him if his name's come in yet. Everyone in his family has a name, and he wonders, sometimes, if that's a hint that no one can ever have nice things.

-

Kari knows that there's search engines or some company that will try to look for your name, if you have one--and Kari has enough money to go looking, if he really wants to. _His_ Antti is out there, and there's time enough after hockey. Sometimes Kari looks at his wrist and sighs. If it's not enough to be one of the unlucky few people with a name, the name has to be distressingly common, too. 

He's not really sure he'd like knowing who he's supposed to bring out the best version of himself during the worst time of his life with, but Kari doesn't have that luxury of choice.  
The name is next to useless. The only thing _Antti_ has going for it is that it's not fucking _Johannes_ , which could be any guy in three countries, not just every other guy in Finland.

He does the only thing he can do. He tries to stop thinking about it, like he can only try on bad games, on pucks, on media. He wonders what exactly the worst time of his life would be. Kari's had tough days, and everyone seems to want to say he can't cut it, not anymore. 

-

Antti doesn't care, most days, about his name. He thinks, maybe, the worst days of his life are over. He's successful. He's in the fucking NHL, and he looks down and doesn't see a name. 

His parents are still expecting one to fill in, and it seems like defeat before he's even begun living. He doesn't return their calls. 

He signs with Dallas because they want him, and they want to pay him an obscene amount of money, and he settles in, thinks that maybe there will be no worst day of his life. 

-

His wrist reads _Kari_ when his plane touches down in Dallas.


	3. kind of accidental soulbond (cabo)

Cabo is a vacation spot. It's not quite peak vacation season, which means Antti has a better chance of being undisturbed on a beach. 

So the least Kari does is buy Antti a drink. 

Kari shrugs. "It's Mexico." It's an answer, of a sorts, but it doesn't explain why now, why here, why they can play each other a few times a year but still bump into each other as far from Finland, where it might at least make sense to run into him, maybe on the Euro Hockey Tour; none of this makes sense at all. 

Antti chugs the rest of his drink, waves the bartender away. Of all the places they could have bonded, they bond in Cabo. It's not like Antti didn't know the day was coming, but it's honestly one of the last places he would have though he'd bond. Not when his dreams were full of _ice_ and hockey and the smell of melting snow. They said you could feel one coming, when the threads of the universe could knit together and finish, and well, he'd felt it. 

Antti expected he'd bond at some rink, somewhere. Maybe a fan coming up for an autograph, even in . sunny San Jose. 

Here, in Mexico, in a bar--that, he didn't expect. 

At least he has the consolation that Kari fucking Lehtonen didn't expect this either. 

_This is you looking on the bright side?_

"Maybe," Antti says, scowling into his empty glass. He's not going to give into using the bond, even though he can hear Kari clear as day. He's more intelligible in his head than he was at Sochi. "Give it a few days." 

A few days was enough to see if it would stick. To see if they could handle separation, to see if they could figure out what the hell the nature of the bond was. There were benefits and there were downsides, and Antti knows some people actually undergo bonds willingly instead of waiting to see what was thrown at them. Or in addition. Antti doesn't understand it. The invasion of privacy alone should put someone off. 

Antti hears the squeak of the barstool. He turns to his left, sees nothing but Kari's broad back and stupid spiky hair. Antti presumes he's looking off into the distance to focus or something equally dramatic. Maybe it's a grounding technique Antti never cared to learn. 

_Are you going to keep thinking uncharitable thoughts at me?_ Kari asks. 

"If you eavesdrop, you deserve it," Antti replies, closing his eyes. He takes a breath, more to stop himself from reaching out to touch--there's a burning underneath his skin, and he doesn't want to deal with it right now. 

"You should," Kari says, giving up all pretense of trying to use the bond. He's turned back. "That's the only perk people talk about." 

Antti considers it.


	4. a time and place (name and date)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this soulmark one needs a bit of messy explanation. Soulmarks: names and dates on people. People usually have a few of each; the first name is considered, well, the name you grow out of. Also, this is a slightly non-linear narrative, but only slightly? Who knows.

When Antti says yes to the Stars, he grimaces. Not only because well, the Stars aren't that good defensively, but also because there is a stinging sensation on his left arm. 

It is a date.

Antti has one name, and he has a normal number of dates. When he was ten, the summer after he won the Cup, the Olympics, and now--

It hurts. There's an expression: _destiny stings_ , _nothing hurts like your name being called_ , all the little phantom hurts out of nowhere are your match making a choice, and your soulmate has it seared into them like it's a pact. 

Antti's never had a date hurt before. 

"I made the right choice, then?" he asks the air, but he doesn't know if anyone is really listening.

 

* * *

 

Kari wakes up to a stinging sensation, a burning sensation, and he grits his teeth. It's his wrist, and all Kari and think about is, 'Fuck, did something catch on fire?' and also, he needs his wrist for everything. He's a goalie. He can't wear a glove with a broken wrist. 

Kari takes a breath, in case it was a nightmare phantom pain. The sensation fades, and Kari thinks he might need to call a doctor. There's only the red glow of an alarm clock, barely enough for him to squint and reach over for his light. He needs to see how bad it is, so he turns on his light, turns his wrist over to exam it. 

In scribbly writing above his dates, Kari's name reads Antti. 

The scrawl on top of his dates looks messy and almost illegible, and Kari only thinks about how bad Antti must feel, with Kari's lazy scribble on his wrist. Kari stopped trying with his signature a long time ago.

It's a name, only one, but it's a name. 

But it’s also Kari’s only name. Maybe that’s supposed to be reassuring. He’s never met anyone in the same situation as his, before, having no name. There’s few enough people in the world with only one name; they make enough movies about it. 

And now Kari's one of them. 

It still doesn’t help him much. It seems like every third Finnish guy is named Antti. 

But it's a name, and Kari's a little afraid to go back to sleep now that it's there, like it won't be there in the morning. 

It's not like it matters; all his dates are in the past, and Kari doesn't think he gets more. 

 

* * *

 

Kari was born with a mark. It's a date. That happens sometimes, the moments of possibility already set in motion. There’s no big fuss made about it. The first doesn’t mean much at all. Or, it means something, but no one seems to want to tell Kari what, at this particular point in time. 

Nothing changes until Kari's older brother wants to play hockey, and Kari doesn't want to be left out, so their parents sign them both up. Kari's stick control is not the worst, but he is the youngest player on the team. It's not very fun. There's a date that comes in, then, and it's in the same loose scrawl; these are important dates, they tell him, and he should be careful. 

* * *

 

Kari's made a lot of choices in his life. He has a lot of the evidence written on his skin. 

 

* * *

 

The Thrashers ask him questions he can't quite get, not without someone to interpret, and while he can see the point of some of them, he doesn't get others. He makes a choice to answer. Others he just smiles at. Kari is not entirely sure about who his name is supposed to be to him; it's not like a movie where it's his only chance at love. He counts the dates, nearly a dozen now. He's not entirely sure anymore.

 

* * *

 

Kari is six when he trades the stick for a bigger one, and the plain black helmet for a colorful mask. He settles in the net, and he listens to his goalie coach. The second date fills in, neatly underneath the first. It’s a second chance to follow the last one. They’re not that uncommon but Kari has to ask his mother what it means. 

"It means you'll get a lot of chances," his mother says, ruffling his blond hair. "You're a lucky little Kärppä."

“Mom,” he protests, ducking away. Kari starts to scrunch down, to say that her love is embarrassing, but he sees his father's name and the date on her arm; the day they met. There is another date, earlier, and another name, one he doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t say anything about it. It’s just one of those things that you don’t do. 

It's not exactly bad that he has dates with no name, not quite yet. Sometimes it takes a while for people to become people. The numbers look almost the same. 

The doctor says for him to come back if he doesn't have a name by puberty; and in Kari's head it's just one of those other things that happen when you grow up. Growing in a name could be like growing in a beard. He'll have one eventually, but not now. But that's for later. He's only six, and he knows he really starts school next year, but it's not worth dwelling on. It's almost time for hockey practice anyway, and who else will help him put on his pads?

It's enough. 

Kari knows he's supposed to be asleep, but he can't sleep. There's pacing outside his bedroom, and the light is still there, so he focuses on it. 

"Do you think his first name's a hockey player," he hears his father ask his mother. "It could be that. Away games?" 

“Not a bad thing,” his mother says, after a moment. “He’s young. And he could use a friend.” 

That wouldn't be so bad, Kari thinks. He wouldn't have to explain how hockey works. He wonders if he'll have to explain how being a goalie works, though. It might be easier if whoever it was played goal, too.

One game, when Kari’s nine years old, he goes into practice with three dates under his glove. By this time, Kari’s starting to accept it’s going to be awkward when he gets a name. Why couldn't Kari get the first one right, whatever it was supposed to be?

They play him for the game, and they win. That, at least, Kari can get right.

He comes out of the game with something else on his arm. It seems almost seem unreal, and Kari stares at the numbers during the car ride home. He didn’t feel anything when it came in. It seems anticlimactic. He looks at his list a little more, blinks. Well, they said to wait, for his name. And if his dates want to come in first, they can. 

And, Kari thinks, the time hasn’t come yet. 

When his parents notice, his dad shakes his head. Kari learns a little about marks in school, but it’s not enough to tell him what's supposed to happen to _him_. Some people get two or three dates because something big happened in their life. Kari's never heard of four. Neither, apparently, have any name specialists seen four dates for the same name, or, they have, but Kari's so _young_ , they all remark--and there's no guarantee they're all for the same name. The most they can tell Kari's parents, while Kari plays with some blocks, is that "Maybe they both had significant changes in their lives" even though Kari doesn't think it works that way. 

"Sometimes," the name doctor says, sighing a little. "Circumstances are more lopsided than others. Kari's parents are a little concerned, but all they pinpoint on is that Kari went into hockey, and that he switched to goalie. It keeps him busy. 

That, the specialist has an answer for. "How good is he? Professional athletes tend to have some erratic names." 

Kari's pretty good. He does what his coach wants him to do, and he gets ahead--he can almost see where and when and why someone shoots the puck, and he's started asking more questions. 

But this? This is the first time he learns he never has to stop being a goalie, if he's good enough. 

Kari's supposed to be ten when they could meet for the time. Sometime this month, though it isn't helpful. His parents are looking around for a new team he can play for, and this is the age where he can't just show up and play. That doesn't mean anything, just that he has to try out for teams. 

He'll make it, Kari knows, so all he had to do is pick one. 

His parents gave him a list, and they said he couldn't go to all of them, so he should name the ones he really wanted to go to. There are tryouts, and there are a lot of boys playing hockey. 

Kari tugs at his sleeve. They're supposed to be on the way to one of them right now. He has a friend on this team, so he’s looking forward to that, at least. 

 

* * *

 

Kari plays for Jokerit. 

Kari graduates and ends up playing Junior B. He’s this close to doing what he loves for a living--it’s a little surreal. In the end, he’s still just a teenager, still living in someone else's house, still trying to understand where he fits in. He can't quite believe it. Kari doesn't know if there's a date on his wrist because he didn't choose something else, but if there is, it's worth it--he's playing in Helsinki, with Jokerit, and Kari thinks he can crack the roster by the time he's twenty. He's closer to the Liiga, and the eyes of the scouts watch him like he's something to watch. 

Kari’s next date fills in when he is sixteen. It might have after he gets the call up to Junior A, right before the season starts, or it might have been the game: he holds the other team to one goal, and the pride of winning streaks in his heart. 

Kari's going to make it. 

"Wow, a persistent one, aren't you?" Kari hears, and he swivels towards the sound. The older guys, which means everyone else in the locker room, notice something. They laugh at his confused expression. The guy two stalls over takes pity on him, says, “Check your arm, kid. I don’t know how you haven’t noticed the grocery list. Mine stung like hell.” 

“Not really,” Kari answers, idly. “My marks don’t hurt.” 

There's a pause after that, like there's something Kari's not getting. And it's true that they can already see that it's the same handwriting every time. 

He looks down. Kari isn’t even the only guy in the locker room to wear a band. A lot of guys don’t because they don’t have to--they have a couple names and dates or they’re married and they don’t care anymore. Most guys cover the dates, and the rest cover the second name, but Kari doesn't have one. So he covers the first few dates, and it might look like a name fits under the band, too, if he had one. 

When Kari checks, the latest date, freshly inked in stark black, is an upcoming summer. 

That's a season and a whole lifetime away, and right now, Kari's in a locker room. He's younger than everyone else; he’s a goalie. Now they know he has a long list. They have enough fuel to tease him, if they wanted to. (They will; he's not kidding himself.)

"Hey, rookie," Bona calls, breaking Kari's thoughts. Kari pays attention. He knows Kari he wouldn't even be here if his ACL didn't tear, but what can fickle luck do against the hockey gods? "Don't let them bother you, Kari." 

"I won't," he says. And besides, goalies stick together. He has a feeling it's going to be a good year. 

Bona swats at Kari's shoulder. "Go on. Coach is going to think I'm teaching you bad habits."

"Are you even supposed to be in here?" 

"What's going to happen, Lindy's going to tell on me?" Bona smiles like he knows Kari won't tell, not at all, even while he's making fun of the man who was his backup--now _Kari's_ backup, if Kari plays hard enough. Kari knows what they say, that he's still a boy, and that these are men.

Kari shakes his head, but he goes to practice. 

Kari can only control so much. He's a goalie. Kari likes control over what he can, so he can see where the puck goes, so he can stop it. He uses the same brand of tape, puts on the same skate first, undoes his laces and redoes them the same way before every game. 

There's a little part of him that's afraid, if he changes things, that he'll have wasted a chance, that another, later date will appear on his arm, underneath a patch of clear skin where a name should be. Kari knows just enough to drive him mad, if he wants to think about it. 

So he doesn't. Kari plays the best he can. He earns medals for Finland, and there's even talk about how the NHL will draft him--not just draft him at all, but draft him early, like they want to see him grow. 

 

* * *

 

A part of him hopes that he doesn’t have to wait out the end of his list--most people move on, accept the moment has passed if they miss their dates. And sometimes whole lists don't match. Erratic dates, they call it, when someone makes a choice and it changes the dates; Kari doesn't think he has more than one name, not by the way the numbers look, all uniform. 

Maybe Kari's a first name; and that prospect is disheartening. Missing the first name isn't the worst thing in the world, but that's only what people with second names, second chances, say. Those are the ones who grow out of their first names, become different people, want different things.

He doesn't see any more dates, and it's done. At some point, Kari thinks, he must be avoiding him, for some reason or another. At this point, Kari only hopes he's worth it. 

 

* * *

 

Kari doesn't want to think about hockey, to think about the season he didn't have because of his bad back. He's not even thirty, he thinks. He's too young for a bad back. Nothing's seemed quite real because he's had to wait on doctors and rehab.

He's going to get back to the net next year, he knows it. Maybe. Probably. The doubt creeps in, since he's been slipping. Kari knows you're not supposed to read your own criticism, but he knows what they're saying about him. That he's proof that you don't draft a goalie high, that he wasn't worth the pick. 

For now, he tries to banish those thoughts with a warm beach and drinks in Mexico. 

There's probably a dozen clubs within walking distance, and Kari just--well, he doesn't know what he's looking for. Something. A distraction. A promise that next year won't be hopes and what ifs and that he can play hockey again (that, the doctors say, will be fine, but he can't help but worry). 

Kari pauses. Is that? There's a man who's vaguely familiar incoming to the bar, and he takes one of those breaths, where he hopes he's mistaken.

He's not. 

That's... Niemi, the fucking bastard who just won the Cup. He's probably Finland's favorite goalie at the moment. Kari couldn't even face him this year, not when he was out for the season. 

They lock eyes, and they don't say a word to each other. Except, Kari hesitates. He raises his beer in salute and says, "Congratulations."

Niemi nods and turns away.

Kari goes back to outside world, out of that bubble of silence. There's people there, but they don’t seem quite the same, anymore. Maybe Kari’s melancholy because his back still twinges, not that he’ll ever say, they all have bad backs in the NHL; it’s just a matter of when it finally goes. Or maybe Kari just misses the sound of home. An hour and a half later, Kari ends up next to Niemi again. It’s not entirely by design, but he needed a new drink anyway, and it looks like he hasn't moved. There's something else; dejection, maybe, or maybe Kari's just projecting. 

“Bad luck?” Kari asks, following his line of sight. There’s a few couples leaving, and Kari can’t quite tell which one he had his eye on. 

“There’s still time,” Niemi says, shrugging. He looks at Kari, but not really looking him in the eye. He's somewhere else, in his head, and Kari thinks he might know what that look _means_ , but Niemi's focus snaps back to the here and now, and Kari's not going to say a word. “And I don’t think you’re helping.” 

Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. 

 

***

By the time the new season starts, Kari has a new uniform to wear, a new city to get used to, and another date on his wrist that's passed. In Dallas, he stops wearing the band. The guys don't joke about his list of dates anymore. Two or three dates is normal. Two or three names is also normal.

One name or date is a little unfortunate, maybe even romantic, and Kari--Kari has too many of one and not enough of the other. He thinks about it, sometimes, trying to put his list of dates into a database somewhere. Kari knows that he has the money to really make a search of it, if he wanted to, but wouldn't someone have shown up by now?

There's some doubts; if he’d been more impulsive in picking a flight every offseason, if he'd gone to the Olympics before, when they asked, when he was young and spry and crushed under the weight of trying to keep the Thrashers afloat? He chose his team over his country. Country or team, health or glory, it was not much of a choice at all.

Maybe. The Olympics brings all kinds together. Maybe his soulmate would have been one of the fans there. 

Kari gets selected for the Olympics. He says yes, this time, and sometimes, Kari really thinks too much of himself, because he's out to dinner with some of his team when this date shows up, very clear on his wrist. That's Sochi, or at least, the day before Sochi. 

His soulmate will be there. His soulmate isn't dead--and Kari almost wants to throw up.

"Karps?" he hears, "are you alright?" 

Not really, Kari thinks. He can’t ignore the fact that he might finally meet whoever this is and figure out why he’s supposed to have about twenty years of missed chances. 

* * *

 

He comes home with a bronze medal and no closer to finding out the mystery of his name. It's potentially not the only thing Kari comes home with, but he should be okay. 

Kari wasn’t imagining that moment in Cabo, and it’s the fucking Olympics. He’s allowed to live a little

* * *

 

Kari's late to training camp, but it's not like he hasn't been working with Reese for the last couple of weeks.

He avoided going back to Finland in the off season. A small part of him thinks he'll let this opportunity pass, too. Niemi is going to fight him for his crease, and he needs everything he's got to fight back.

Antti Niemi. 

Kari wonders why they keep crossing paths. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern.

 

* * *

 

Antti has two months before he meets his soulmate. The date on his arm is near the end of summer, and that's that. He has a feeling, though, that he’s missing something else. That he should have been paying attention.


	5. accidental soulbond (sochi)

They bonded at the Olympics. Kari tries not to think too much about it. He lost to fucking Sweden, and all he got out of it was watching Tuukka in net for the final game and a goalie in his head. 

He could do with one less of those.

 

* * *

 

The buzzer rings, and Kari's angry at himself for letting in two goals, angry at the team for only scoring one goal, and angry at the cold Russian air for probably giving Tuukka the damn flu. The Olympics being the pinnacle of national pride doesn't stop it from being somewhere where there's a million people or somewhere very cold. 

It hurts even more because it's against _Sweden_ and Kari kept them to two goals. Two. He swallows a lump in his throat, and he can barely make himself look at Team Finland's colors, nevermind anyone's face. 

They score one.

It's official; Finland falls in the semi-finals. The buzzer rings. 

The team half-heartedly tries to console him, most of them too absorbed in this crushing defeat themselves. They've still got one game to play, but Kari only hears a dejected, "Good job." They're not going to pin their hopes on him tomorrow. Someone pats his helmet, but it rings hollow. 

Every after-game ritual is somehow even worse than long moment of silence in the locker room, right before Teemu and Tuomo broke it to try to rally the team for tomorrow. Everything went tersely along like they hadn't just lost on Olympic ice. In Russia. Against Sweden. 

It's still daylight, even, though barely. 

There's a lot of compounding factors, there. They ride their bikes back to their building, ostensibly, but most of them are aiming to raid the snacks in the lounge before heading to the dining hall. Thus, the team separates into the people they want to eat a dinner with, and Kari's not feeling so charitable to anyone, least of all himself. He puts on a smile and a shrug to ward off the sting. 

The problem with early games, Kari thinks, is that there's space to fill afterwards. 

There's a rec center somewhere, so he heads towards that. He's a little sick of the thought of a gym right now, and they have morning skate before tomorrow, besides. Two or three of the young guys decide that they'll go play video games in the arcade, and so there's a small pod of them looking like they have somewhere to go. 

It passes the time. A few hours later, the sting of the loss fades. Kari can make conversation during dinner, something he grabs from the large and unnecessarily prominent dining hall McDonald's. By this point, most of the catching up with the rest of Team Finland has devolved into telling truly fucking embarrassing stories about the ones that aren't there or retired. 

Kari's honestly glad the next time he has to look Jere in the eye, it will probably be far enough removed from now that he'll have forgotten the story Lehterä starts and a quarter of the team embellishes.

It's been a long time since he's been on a national team, and the camaraderie is something he misses in Dallas. The last time, he realizes, that was in Russia, too.

His roommate even tries to say a word or two when Kari comes back to their room. 

Niemi says it from across the room where they've pushed the beds away from each other, since the default was too close for any human comfort. But Kari doesn't hear a word; all that goes around in Kari's head is: _Oh, this fucker. That was a mess. Fucking Sweden. I could have been better. I could have been better. I didn't come here to watch the team lose. If I'd been in goal, maybe--_

Wait. What. 

Kari looks up and across the room. Niemi has the same shocked expression on his face. 

A moment passes. They both take breaths. 

"If you're in my head," he says. "I think you should call me Antti." 

Kari stills and tries to clear his head. It doesn't quite work since he also scrambles to remember what the fuck he knows about sudden telepathy. He ends up saying, "Maybe." 

Bonds are forged in times of extreme emotion. Brothers-in-arms in battle, births, deaths, weddings, funerals; those are the typical stages for a bond to form. Permanent, irrevocable events. Apparently losing an Olympic game also counts. It's a team sport, though. If bonds were only up to that, the whole team would be crowding into Kari's head. 

He's pretty glad not to have that. No one needs to have Teemu Selanne in your head more than once. 

"There's plenty of room in it," Antti says. It brings Kari's attention back to the room and not on the hows and whys of bonds. Antti scoffs. "That's one way to think positively." 

"Yes," Kari agrees. "We have to live with it, for a while." 

He also thinks he should be offended, somehow. Bonds aren't all the same. Some are weaker than others, but right now, it's hard to tell which thoughts are his and which are Antti's. This is not ideal, but it will settle, eventually. Kari's had other bonds before, and they fade in a few days, usually, if they're not reinforced. 

A new bond's presence is not-quite a feeling, and it's also strange. Kari frowns and says, "Don't think about pink elephants" because he's been in America too long, but it works, mostly. They're on the same page. 

The proper thing to do, probably is to tell someone, make sure it all settles down correctly. But that involves observation. Neither of them are playing tomorrow. And, if any situation called for a drink, losing would be it. Of course, they have a game tomorrow, and showing up hungover isn't the wisest idea. They aren't going to do that. 

"There's a simple solution to that," Antti says. "Don't get caught after curfew." 

Kari laughs. That's right. "And don't trip over anyone fucking in the bushes?" 

Someone on the Olympic committee wisely ordered metric tons of alcohol and liquor for a few thousand athletes, so they might as well make use of it. Impromptu bike processions are the norm, here, and they're not even the only Finnish athletes at the bar, when it's all said and done.

They're skiiers or snowboarders, so Kari has no idea what to do at a nod and a, "Good luck" directed his way. Their events are over, so everyone's watching what they do. 

Kari's not even sure if he's warming the bench tomorrow, having to pretend to smile when he had to see the whole team in front of him yesterday. He's not quite sure how he got here, to this place, to being Rask's backup, but Kari's still here, at Sochi. Kari has medals, but not an Olympic medal--and he still might not get one.

Antti gives him a tap on the shoulder and says, "Here," and pushes something into Kari's hand.

And then he _leaves_ , the fucker, and Kari's not sure whose idea it was to go here in the first place or by whose consent they went together, but there's a bottle of the kind of beer he likes, and summaries about other people's dreams being crushed on a TV, so he's not too bad off. 

The pace in Sochi is different, but unlike some other people, the team hasn't had much free time. Their two weeks are nearly at an end. For most people, it's over. Kari's not blind, there are plenty of people partying until they crash, and plenty of people ending up in rooms that aren't their own.

He's not stumbling into bed; he has more shame than that. 

 

* * *

 

But they've won bronze, and Kari doesn't have to be back to Dallas for a few more days. 

_I'll see you the next time we play_ is probably how they'll part, and Kari doesn't--Kari doesn't want to deal with the realities of this yet. 

 

Kari stops in his tracks. He clutches his head, leans on the railings to steady himself and not quite succeeding. It's a migraine so bad he can't quite believe it, and he can't think. Someone's grabbed his arm, and someone might be saying something to him, but all he can do is react, jerk his arm up in reaction. 

Everything is more than a little fuzzy around the edges. 

Later, he's told, 

There is an IV in his arm, and Kari can't say that's the first time he's ever needed one. He doesn't know where he is, but presumably, it's a hospital. Or, he hopes, just the trainer's room at the practice facility where he's lying down and getting fluids. 

He finally opens his eyes. It's hospital-sterile, and there's Olympic rings on the wall. He's still in Sochi, and well, at least it's not a Russian hospital. 

"Bond separation symptoms," the doctor in the white coat says, when he looks up expectantly. She shakes her head. "It happens in about a third of bonds. Can you contact your bondmate?" 

"Can you say that again?" Kari asks, very carefully. He's pretty sure that he's understanding this correctly.

She does. She flips through her clipboard, and Kari only sees the edge of a name badge with a little Finnish flag on it; it's not very important at the moment. Then she adds, "We're keeping you for a little while or observation, but either you've adjusted or your bondmate is closer. We're seen a lot of these. Everyone wants to get on a flight home as fast as possible." 

In retrospect, this is also something they should have thought of, but both Kari and Antti were doing a fine job of ignoring what being bonded did. Also, that winning Olympic medals is a hotbed of bonding activity. 

Kari doesn't know why he didn't realize that before. 

It's not like Kari doesn't have Antti's number. Kari doesn't think it's the best idea to think at Antti, so he sends a text. 

 

* * *

 

They're not friends. Kari sees him maybe three or four times a year, across the ice, where the wall bricked up between them is twice as suffocating as during the rest of the year. Most of the time, Kari doesn't even notice Antti's there. The overlapping game schedules and their individual rituals take care of that. It's only those few games where the complete blankness seems all-encompassing. 

They only played each other once last year, and Kari lost. Miserably. 

Kari slumps down into a chair. He exhales. He concentrates and he thinks, _Antti?_

They don't say much about the bond. They don't talk much through it, either--they have no reason to, most days. Antti sits like a rock in the back of Kari’s mind, and less talkative than one. 

Most days are not the ones where Kari's bone-tired and gone to bed restless. He can't help but want to do better, on those days where they needed him to save everyone's asses. He didn't. It consumes him at night.

Those are the days where Antti snaps, _You're getting old. What do you expect? You're tired and injured and your backup can't help worth a damn. Have a drink. Go to sleep. You're giving me a headache._

A long silence follows. Kari’s ready to say that Antti’s asleep or otherwise indisposed. Or that he's gotten better at ignoring Kari.

 _Is there someone else in your head?_ And, then, as always, Antti Niemi gets straight to the point. _I only just found out._

_Nill told me._

_Did they want me because of the bond?_ Antti asks, brusquely. _Because you're not worth taking a discount for._

 _They don’t._ He almost laughs. They're no grand bondmate story. They want Antti because he’s a crutch; if Kari breaks down, there wouldn’t be much of a damn difference, would there? The most ironic part: the team doesn't know how literal that is.

The Stars don’t know. The NHL barely cares about bonded defenseman pairings, never mind goalies.

Kari sighs, and he calls Mike. It's the responsible thing. His agent can tell the team--what’s he paying him for, otherwise? Antti’s agent can bitch that he fucked up contract negotiations later. There’s no downside. 

Antti ends up with a deal that ends when Kari’s does, complete with a modified no trade clause. Bill probably shouldn’t have told Mike, who probably shouldn’t have told Kari a word about this, but it’s done. They’re going to be a matched set, and Kari doesn’t know whether to laugh or weep. 

 

* * *

 

“Right! Lehts, Nemo, management’s office!” Reese blows his whistle to waive them off the ice a little early. He moves to work with Campbell, who’s hungrier than last year and still so raw. The new Dallas Stars helmet is a message and a goal. Kari doesn’t want to be that poor kid. 

None of the kids are ready to take his net, but that’s not the problem this season. That's always been Kari's head. In Nill’s office, Kari tries not to fidget in the slightly uncomfortable chair. 

“Are you two going to be okay?” Jim asks. “Reese is putting something together.” 

Kari glances over to Antti, who gives a little shrug. “I don’t see any problem. Should there be?”

“We’ve got a bond specialist, if you need him.” The mustache twitches. “You’re not the only bond on this team.” 

Kari knows. A couple of guys are bonded to their wives, too, but he has no idea what they do. He nods and resolves never to ask them for advice. They’ve lasted this long without it. 

Antti snorts. “We don’t need relationship counseling.”

They’d need something close to a relationship first. 

Jim nods. “Good, but I don’t want something taking you both out, so go talk to him before the season starts.” 

No one in the Stars organization makes a big deal about it. The bond guy offers them some suppressants, to which Antti only stares and shakes his head. Kari waves him off because he doesn’t need anything fucking up his head more than usual. He does that just fine on his own. The equipment managers ask if they need adjoining rooms on road trips. 

Kari’s not sure that news about their bond didn’t leak. But the only reaction in the locker room when they walk into training camp are some polite asks about their summers, so Kari doubts it. Hockey players may be the biggest gossips in the world, but the front office manages to keep things level. 

The only ones making a big deal about Kari and Antti are the reporters, though, who ask them questions about each other again and again. Kari’s not sure how much anyone wants to read about them, and if this is the level without them knowing, Kari doesn't want to hear the press if they do know. 

"Are they going to ask me your favorite color next?" Kari wonders. "What kind of dog you like?" 

"They like that story you keep telling them about us.”

"It's true." 

"I don't remember it." Antti picks up his spare pants from the floor, shoving them back into a bag. "Stop telling them so much." 

“Stop being behind me during interviews,” Kari says. “They’ll forget about you if they don’t see your face. I do.” 

 

* * *

 

On opening day, Antti leaves practice first. 

Kari can feel every inch of the wall going up between them, now that he can see Antti getting into the right headspace. Foundation laid with stretches. Section by section, pad by pad-Antti doesn’t even look at Kari. Maybe it’s petty, but Kari doesn't bother to put up his defenses, he's terse, on-edge and upset that Antti's taking the start. He watches Antti calmly going through his stretches, sure fingers steadily closing every clasp and buckle, closing every gap of connection between them. 

That is his net. It's been his. Kari’s frustration must leak because Antti frowns particularly hard. 

Kari pulls down his cap a little more. He watches Antti’s back as he walks out with the rest of the starters. Kari slowly, slowly rises. 

He resolves not to smile on the bench-there’s nothing to be excited about. Except. Hockey’s back. The rookie scores off a pass from Hemmer a minute into the game, and Kari’s allowed to be happy for the kid. First game, first shift, first goal. It’s definitely Janmark’s night. Maybe even his year. 

Antti gets the second assist. 

Eaks manages to keep Sidney Crosby at bay. There are rough patches, where the team doesn’t know where to fit together, yet, but he manages it. Then he does it again, shift after shift, and Kari goes still. They’re getting tired, but the game’s clean and no one’s worn down by the roughness of a season quite yet. 

Hemmer scores in the second, and the crowd loves it. 

Antti stops Phil Kessel dead in his tracks. 

The energy simmers in the Arena. They get sloppy, and the Pens get frustrated. Then Jamie gets shoving. They wave off Sharp’s goal because of it. The Penguins come alive, or at least get angrier. 

Jamie makes it up with a goal, but only just.

Fleury skates off with three minutes left in the game. Kari doesn’t let himself think when the sixth Pen takes his place. Because he can’t-he can’t-

 _Shut-out. A fucking shut-out._ Kari breathes. The rest of the bench files out to congratulate Antti, and Kari is right there with them.

Jeff’s on the speakers, yelling the best sound in the world. “STARS WIN!” 

It’s almost magical, taking the strides from the bench to the ice. Antti even smiles back when Kari offers a fist bump and a "fucking amazing." 

They skate off the ice together. Maybe this tandem could work. 

Kari waddles over in the locker room to talk to Antti about the epiphany he has, an idea about how to get the rust off their old man joints. They bump shoulders. Kari hasn’t even taken off his chest protector yet--that can wait. The new ideas spring around them. Antti listens; he’s good at that. 

 

* * *

 

He still fucking doesn’t do it in practice, but it’s a start. 

 

* * *

 

The excitement doesn’t last. 

Antti drops game two in spectacular fashion. The staff assigned them adjoining rooms anyway, so Kari doesn’t even have the comfort of distance to mute the disgruntlement. He can’t even be sure that’s just Antti being disappointed he played like shit. Six. Fucking goals. On crappy ice. 

So much for that thought.

 _Well, it’s Colorado,_ Kari thinks, and they’ve always have a hell of a time there. Thin air. 

 

* * *

 

Kari starts the third game. 

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, falling into bed with Antti comes as no surprise. What happens at the Olympics, stays at the Olympics. Except, they neither of them have the luxury of forgetting. The stupid team bikes, maybe. Those could stay at the Olympics. 

It’s fucking easier than picking up, that’s for sure. 

 

* * *

 

Kari complains about Antti’s driving. It’s something to do, and Kari knows that he’s only listening to half of it. 

 

* * *

 

It’s a lost cause to explain. They just don't, really, and they've told the team, and there's nothing to say on that front. 

“Kevin, help me out here,” Demers says. “What’s going on in goalie-land?” 

“How would I know?” Jyrki half-mumbles to the floor. 

“Well, there’s something freaky going over there,” Demers shrugs. “It’s like-“ 

“-they can read each other’s minds?” Segs, surprisingly, finishes. “It makes sense. They’re in, like, a goalie bubble.” 

A goalie bubble. At least Spezz and Hemmer are shaking their heads enough for everyone else. Sometimes, what comes out of Segs’s mouth is just ridiculous.

“We’re bonded,” Antti says with no fanfare. He yawns, relacing a skate. “Nice detective work.” 

“Yes, really,” Kari confirms. “It’s been years.” 

Silence falls over the room. Scevs delicately tries break the silence, but manages to trample all over it. “Karps, you know we appreciate you, but you have got to work on your joke delivery. You can’t tell the same joke right after.” 

_I think I’m funny._ Kari frowns. 

_Some of the time, you’re not half bad._ Antti thinks back, and they have to deal with the fallout. 

 

* * *

 

They play like fucking shit. 

 

* * *

 

“We’re going to dinner,” Antti declares. 

Kari nods. He doesn’t complain about that. It's almost normal, and Kari doesn't complain when Antti orders steaks and beer. They’re fucking hockey players. They live on steak and pasta. 

“Get the fuck out of your head,” Antti says, before the waiter comes back with their drinks. Everyone else tries to avoid saying it, but it’s all the same. Lindy’s assurances that he’ll be fine, stop worrying. Reeser ups the amount of stretches that Kari complains the least about. Antti, at least, doesn't treat him like glass. 

Silence. Kari drags his fork slowly back and forth, the small sound not nearly enough to answer for him. _We were doing so well, too._

“Use your words.” Antti feels a little like Kari's fucking sitter, apparently, which he doesn't have to be if he doesn't want to. Antti raises an eyebrow and gives Kari one of those looks like he could wait all day. 

He can, actually. That's the worst part. "I never thought I'd have to work on that." Kari closes his eyes, takes a few deep breathes. "I can handle this. I need to handle this." 

"You do," he agrees, and that doesn't make Kari feel any better at all. "But so do I." 

 

* * *

 

Before the game, Kari goes and sits on the bench, watching the zambonis retreat to wherever zambonies go. He stares out onto the ice, trying to take it all in. He's here. 

It's the playoffs. 

Kari takes a breath and stills himself. It’s different, this time. When he comes back into the locker room to get dressed, everyone is still in there. No one tries to pat him on the back or touch him; they let him have his space. 

It’s different. It’s not just that he’s the goalie. It’s not just that he needs to get his head on straight. It’s more than that. This is redemption. 

Kari glances over to his left. Antti nods, straightening the cap on his head. Kari's not sure how much of that he's heard or how much of that he's felt or how much of that is just written on Kari's face. 

_Knock them dead, Kärppä._


End file.
